The world was topsyturvy and would never get right again.
Instead of going for Priscilla she went for a dust-pan and brush and collected the fragments of broken china. Then she began to pile up the dishes, but, after a few futile movements, sat down in a chair and cried again. It didn’t seem worth while to do anything else. So now there were three girls crying all at once in that house and every one of them in a different place. When at last Elliott did look in the closet Priscilla wasn’t there.
The appearance of that usually spotless kitchen had a queer effect on Elliott. She saw so many things needing to be done at once that she didn’t do any of them. She simply stood and stared hopelessly at the wreck of comfort and cleanliness and good cheer.
“Hello!” said Bruce at the door. “Want an extra hand for an hour?”
“I thought you were cutting ensilage,” said Elliott. It was good to see Bruce; the courage in his voice lifted her spirits in spite of her.
“I’ve left a substitute.” The boy glanced into the stove and started for the wood-box.
“Oh, dear! I forgot that fire. Has it gone out?”
“Not quite. I’ll have it going again in a jiff.”
He came back with a broom in his hands.